


The Tunnel

by starsqwub



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-01-29 06:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsqwub/pseuds/starsqwub
Summary: Poe's on the edge,of something.And it's either something good, or something really, really bad.All he needs is a push.An AU fic about hurtin’ and healin’.
Relationships: Poe Dameron & Finn & Rey, Poe Dameron & Jessika Pava, Poe Dameron & Temmin "Snap" Wexley, Poe Dameron/Finn, Shara Bey & Poe Dameron
Comments: 17
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Felt inspired by some recent AU’s I’d read and the themes in Resistance Reborn! lemme know what you guys think! :)

Tomorrow for sure; tomorrow he’ll quit. Poe takes a long, desperate drag from his cigarette. He sighs slowly; smoke billows.

Tomorrow, swear to god. Tomorrow he’ll quit for good. 

It’s like a tunnel of tomorrows, the life Poe Dameron lives, with no end in sight.

It started with the smoking.   
  
“I should really quit,” he’d finally admitted aloud to Jess. They sat on her balcony in total darkness, save for the dull orange glow from the end of his cigarette. It was finally starting to feel like fall after a particularly long, muggy summer.

Frogs were croaking in the distance, out by the river. He heard Jess shuffle her feet. “Probably, Poe. Yeah.” 

Poe nodded. “Yeah.” The cigarette’s glow pulsed in the night. His own pulse heavily beat in time with it. “Tomorrow. That’s it.” 

Months later, the same balcony:   
  
“Nobody expected you to just wake up one day and, you know,” Jess waved her hands, “walk away from cigarettes forever and waltz into the sunset. It’s called addiction for a reason, dude. It’s hard. We know it’s hard.”

The drink he’d been nursing felt heavy in Poe’s fingers; his left hand twirled the glass of rum in slow, absent-minded circles. A fresh cigarette dangled from his lips. 

Jess tapped his boot with the toe of her running shoe. “Poe. Are you with me?” 

He glanced at Jess through his curls (_note to self: haircut, tomorrow if there’s time_). Her cheeks were pink from the steady breeze rolling through the neighborhood, and not from rum, like Poe’s were. How many more times would he pour his heart out to her on this balcony, Poe wondered. _How many more times could she stand it, more like. _

But Poe nodded. “I’m with you.” 

Jess Pava smiled. 

That was three years ago. 

Today, Poe’s still a big believer in the power of tomorrow; _tomorrow_ he’ll put down the cigarettes. _Tomorrow_ he’ll stop drinking. _Tomorrow_ he’ll go for a jog like he’s been promising Jess for ages now, ever since he first met her back in college. He’ll turn in those library books tomorrow, get his right rear brake light fixed (_shit, and get the oil changed too, write that down_), and he’ll—(_double shit, the engine light’s on. What the hell. Okay—brake light, oil change, engine light, tomorrow. Well, if I have time. Jess’s party is on Friday night, though. Gotta get it all fixed by then._) 

Shit, what else was he gonna do?   
  
Right, right—above all else, if he gets his shit together like he’s been meaning to (and he will, goddammit)—Poe will sit down, and he’ll write. It’ll be the oh-so-sweet cherry on top of his efficient, productive day.

That’s the plan for _tomorrow_. 

Poe doesn’t have a plan for today. He never does. 

(_Today_ usually likes to sucker-punch Poe; likes to knock his feet out from under him, and point and laugh afterwards. Poe never knows where to start on _todays_.)

His phone buzzes in his pant pocket, mid-cigarette. Poe pulls the phone out messily, nearly dropping it from his perch on the fire escape mounted outside his kitchen window, and squints at the new notification lighting up its home screen: 

**Jess P.**

_Snap’s coming on Friday. Is that ok??_

Poe snorts. He swipes the notification away with his thumb (revealing the wallpaper behind it: an old photo of Jess and Poe on a swing set in a children’s park, high up in the air with huge smiles plastered on their faces. What the wallpaper doesn’t show is the sprained ankle Poe earned trying to leap from the swings afterwards).   
  
She’s a good person, Jess Pava. In a way that makes Poe’s heart hurt. In a way he could never be. She does things like asking if it’s okay for one of her friends (your ex-friend) to come to HER party, as if you saying “no” would be at all appropriate. But she asks, because what you feel matters to her. Because she’s a good person, and she loves you, even though you can’t seem to do anything you set your mind to.

He takes the phone and jabs a quick reply:   
  
_yeah_

—and sends it. He puffs on his cigarette. Adds:

_thanks for the heads up_

—sends that one too.

Jess replies quickly. 

**Jess P.**

_Np! See you later _

Poe replies:   
  
_later buddy_

He lets out a deep sigh—a kind of deep that feels like it’s been building inside him for years. When it’s done, he still feels heavy. After a few more minutes of aimlessly kicking his feet over the edge of the fire escape, and staring out into the trees that dot the neighborhood (flaming orange; fall seems to come quicker n’ quicker every year), Poe swings his legs over the kitchen windowsill and hops back into his apartment. 

He navigates the kitchen and living room with a practiced ease despite the clutter it contains; his modest one-bedroom apartment would make a fire safety inspector weep at best, and at worst, it would definitely keep said inspector from escaping in the event of a fire. It’s a damn fine mess in the living room: paper and books on the floors and tables (anywhere but in the bookshelves, because bookshelves are for your beer bottles and the collection of tiny screws you’ve accumulated from several years' worth of IKEA furniture projects), takeout containers, more books, jackets upon jackets (he buys too many jackets, his top-tier guilty pleasure), and his mail key is hiding in there somewhere among the muck, but he’ll worry about that another day. He grabs the nearest jacket from a pile on the floor (a puffy green one that makes him look like he loves _nature_ and owns an _eco-friendly reusable straw)_ and decides to do what he does on days where he’s overall at a 5, but his anxiety’s at a 10:  
  
He walks.

(“You can always walk,” Jess had said, re-tying her shoelaces into tighter bows, “and it’ll be just as good for you as crossing something off of your to-do list.” 

Poe thought to protest, lingering at his apartment’s front door: “I really can’t, Jess. I’m just, I’m behind on a few things, I should stay—“

“You should walk with me,” Jess replied firmly, and because she was looking at him with that gentle steel in her eyes, he’d said, 

“I should walk with you. Gimme a sec.”)

He’s got time to kill before work tonight, so Poe’ll take the longer route to the public library and back. Plenty of time to _not-think_ about Jess’s party, and to definitely _not-think_ about seeing Snap at Jess’s party, and to just _not-think_ of unpleasant things in general. And long walks, Poe notes with a good amount of self-satisfaction, are great for idea-generation; they’re a writer’s best friend! (Are you still a writer if you haven't touched your novel in x-amount of years? But Poe files that thought away under things to _not-think_ about.) 

He bounds out of the apartment, hands stuffed into his jacket’s pockets, cigarette still drooping from his lips, and starts his walk down the block with a little pep in his step, eagerly welcoming inspiration to strike him at any moment.

Instead, he thinks of Jess’s party. 

Poe chews his lip. Maybe he can skip it, he thinks, but immediately regrets it, mentally pummeling himself for even considering that as an option. Of course he can’t skip it; Jess would kill him. But he hadn’t seen Snap in at least a year, maybe longer, and the thought of seeing him at Jess’s was making Poe’s stomach twist in a knot. 

(Several phone wallpapers ago, before the photo of Jess and Poe on the swings, before the photo of the starry night on that camping trip to Kashyyyk, before his favorite photo of his mom, the one where she’s dancing with little Poe at a a friend’s daughter’s quinceañera—before all of those phone wallpapers was a photo of Poe and Snap, at Snap’s wedding. He’d been Snap’s best man. Snap had fed Poe a slice of cake jokingly as if Poe were the bride. There was icing on their suits, and up the side of Poe’s nose. They were laughing. Karé snapped the photo herself. 

This is not Poe’s phone’s wallpaper anymore, and hasn’t been for a long, long time.) 

His breath starts to come sharp and short by the one-mile mark. Poe pulls the cigarette from his lips and spits onto the sidewalk; he’s really gotta get a handle on this habit. Inspiration can’t strike if he’s too busy hacking his lungs out. He tosses the cigarette, gives it a good stomp with the heel of his well-worn pair of running shoes, and continues the walking loop, feeling just a bit lighter… if only by a bit. 

He’d grown up here in Yavin. Despite its handful of skyscrapers (“Pfffft, Yavin _wishes_. Those are, like, buildings standing on their tip-toes to make themselves _feel_ like skyscrapers,” Jess had joked on her balcony) and various tourist attractions (“What about the museums, don’t you like those? You like art,” Poe offered, but Jess just shrugged plainly), Yavin felt so much more like a small town to Poe than the considerable city actually it was. (“Nothing like Coruscant,” Jess hummed lowly. Her eyes burned with that signature intensity. “I’m gonna get there someday.”) Poe knew Yavin like the back of his hand—all the alleys and rivers and parks and people. People whose gazes he was not so subtly avoiding along his long walking route. (“_We_ will,” Poe added. Jess grinned, and gave Poe’s arm a friendly nudge. “That’s the spirit,” she said.)

At the halfway mark of the longer walking route is the bar Poe works at with Jess, Starbird. He gives its old brick facade a warm smirk as he passes by; he’d never meant to work at this old bar as long as he has. But it’s what he looked forward to most every day; Starbird was solid, reliable. And in turn, it helped Poe feel as solid as he could manage. He was sort of good at bartending. People liked talking to him, hearing his stories—they got to see all the good and shiny parts of Poe, the parts that still work without too much effort. Every once in a while he’d look out into the tables and at all the faces in the bar, and for a second, Poe would feel kind of _real_. Like how writing used to make him feel. It’s hard to explain. He certainly feels real now, the way his lungs are burning while Poe tries to hike up Yavin Avenue. 

Most days he doesn’t feel very real at all.

The best part of Starbird is that Jess is there. 

And now Poe’s thinking about the party again. 

This walk wasn’t a very good idea; Poe regrets tossing his cigarette so soon. 

For a moment, Poe almost turns to double back. He almost takes out his phone to text Jess; maybe he’ll tell her something came up, that he’s really gotta get some work done, and he’s really, _really_ sorry, but he just can’t make it this Friday. 

On any other day Poe might’ve—no, _certainly_ sent that text,  
  
but Poe sees _him_ first, across the street. Someone new, in Yavin.

(For a second, Poe thinks again of _inspiration striking._)

Come to think of it, 

Poe hadn’t ever really taken a good look at the cafe across the street from Starbird, even though it’d clearly been there for decades; it was a sort of small, and quirky, and not exactly Poe’s speed, but now he was taking it all in: the swaths of twinkling lights strung about its entrance, the funky ceramics full of peonies lining the cafe’s front-facing window, and the music (a perky-sounding piano; was that live? Poe couldn’t quite tell) playing within. The cafe’s name was painted boldly along its window in a bright orange cursive, “Maz’s Place”. (Something about the name sounds familiar, though he can’t place it now.) 

And hunched over one of the cafe tables outside, face buried in a mess of notebooks and textbooks, is a smartly dressed guy: dark-skinned, with a sweetly patterned sweater, and kind eyes squinting through squared-off glasses. He reads his textbook aloud in a soft, muted murmur. His brow looks _so_ serious. 

After a moment, the young man’s eyes drift up from his textbook and catch Poe’s. He smiles out of politeness (_inspiration, inspiration_), then returns to his studies. 

Poe blinks. _Shit_. 

(He’d tried once, when things were getting really bad, to call his dad for help. It’d felt sort of childish to call him, and more than anything, Poe was just ashamed. But he called him all the same, and Kes Dameron’s voice sighed over the speaker. 

“You’re so much like your mother,” Kes had said. Poe could hear a smile in his voice, oddly.

Poe had winced, and shook his head. _No. Not true. So, so fucking far from the truth_—

But Kes continued: “It’s hard, to love so much. It was for her, too.”)

Poe's still staring, caught up in some sort of stasis, _bewitched,_ as if the guy across the street had murmured spells over him. 

And  he doesn’t understand it _right_ at this moment, though at the same time, he kind of does:

Poe's on the edge, 

of _something_. 

And it's either something _good_, or something really, really _bad_. 

All he needs is a push. 

Poe quits it with the damn staring. He turns back home. He walks,

and he absolutely does not think about Jess Pava's fucking party. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s bringing balance. I’m leaving Yavin, so the universe is replacing me, with a gift.” She waggles her dark brows. “A cute gift.”
> 
> Poe snorts, and then softens, shaking his head. Two things I know, he thinks, maybe the only two things,
> 
> are that you can’t run from Jess Pava—
> 
> Poe buckles Jess’s chin strap, and gives it a good, snug tug.
> 
> —and you could never replace her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy thanksgiving everyone!! <3

Jess’s voice cuts through the din of Starbird’s weeknight crowd: “Poe Dameron, who are you looking for?” 

Poe’s eye’s flit from the bar’s front entrance to the empty glass in his hand. _Shit, what was he supposed to be making_—“No one,” Poe says, “I’m not... I’m not looking for anyone.”—_was it a cocktail? What’d that lady order_—

“Blue Milk Special,” Jess says, cocking her head toward Poe’s empty glass. She puckers her lips, suspicious. 

“Right right right,” Poe nods, scrambling for the Blue Milk mix and ducking from Jess’s pointed gaze. 

“Who is he,” Jess says. 

Poe shakes his drink out. “I told you Jess—“

“Where’d you meet him.” 

Poe garnishes the Blue Milk Special with mint and slides it over to its patron. “I didn’t meet anyone, Jess—“

“You should bring him to the party.” 

Poe’s shoulders go stiff. The bar’s rowdy tonight; a group to Poe’s right suddenly bursts into unwieldy whoops and hollers, and—_perfect timing_—a guy in a football jersey elbows a drink clean over the bartop. The glass shatters with a high-pitched ring, followed by a resounding roar of “OOOOOOOOH”’s from the guilty party. 

Without meeting Jess’s gaze, Poe jumps for the broom. “I got it.” 

“You can’t run from me, Poe,” Jess calls, and she’s right, Poe thinks. 

He grins bitterly. “I’m not trying to, Jess.” He sweeps the glass shards along the floor, now slick with booze, and sighs. 

A shock of cool air floods the room, and Poe can’t help but eye the entrance again, even though he definitely isn’t looking for anyone like Jess was insisting, and (let’s be real here!) it _certainly_ wasn’t the guy he’d spotted at that cafe across the street earlier that day. Familiar faces cross the bar’s threshold—a gaggle of Yavin folks he’d probably served here a hundred times, who immediately cheer at the sight of some other friends across the bar; the front doors swing close behind them with a heavy _creeeeeak_. 

Yeah. He wasn’t looking for anyone, so there was no reason to be disappointed right now, at all. 

Jess shakes her head in Poe’s peripheral, her brows arched comically. 

“I’m not looking for anyone, Jess!” Poe laughs, though he wipes the rest of the spilled drink away for a bit too long, and too diligently, trying hard to ignore the need for a smoke break that’s gnawing at his gut.

* * *

Their closing ritual at Starbird usually involved a healthy dose of competition, with Jess and Poe racing each other as they mopped and wiped and washed. (“A healthy dose” is probably putting things lightly; something Jess and Poe had always shared was a powerful disdain for losing.)

Tonight was different, though. 

Poe and Jess walk through the motions of closing time together in something like slow motion; they maneuver about the bar in a soft silence, thoughtfully making way for each other in their careful cleaning choreography. Poe wipes the bartop down in slow, hypnotic circles. Jess hums a bit under her breath as she sweeps peanut shells from the floor. (Usually Poe would join in and hum along, but he bites his tongue. His craving for a cigarette grows.) 

When midnight comes, the bar’s spotless, but Poe’s still cleaning. 

“Wish you’d clean like this at your place,” Jess says. Her eyes have that trademark spark, but her smile’s warm. With no small amount of effort, tiny Jess hops up to the bartop and takes a seat; her legs swing and dangle off the edge in a way that makes her look like a little kid, which she’d hate to hear. She pats the bartop invitingly. “Come on.”

Poe hesitates, his hands keeping busy with wiping down a wine glass. 

“You’ve been cleaning the same glass for twenty minutes, Poe. C’mon. Sit with me.” 

_You can’t run from Jess Pava_. Poe huffs. He stores the glass after a long moment and takes a seat next to Jess. Their arms rest against each other easily; Poe thinks of all the times they’ve sat just like this, arm pressed to arm, leg to leg: on Jess’s balcony, and in his living room. On a bench in the park. At the beach, once, for Poe’s birthday. He feels a brief pang of guilt; usually, when they sat like this, Poe was spilling his guts to her, telling some new iteration of the same old story: _I’m stuck, and I don’t want to be. I want to change, but I’m an idiot. How do I be more like you. More... complete._

“I’ll miss this place,” Jess says, knocking her knee into Poe’s. 

It’s silly, but Poe immediately wants to cry. 

He doesn’t, though. He puts an arm around her strong shoulders and tries to smile in a way that (hopefully) reads as _aloof_. “You had a good run, Pava. Starbird won’t be the same without you.” _(It really wouldn’t.)_

“You’re not gonna burn the place down while I’m gone, right?” she retorts lowly, and Poe gives her shoulders a squeeze. 

“Oh, inevitably.” 

“You moron,” Jess chuckles, elbowing Poe’s ribs, and _fuck, don’t you fucking cry now, Dameron—_

“Coruscant won’t know what hit ‘em. Say goodbye to,” Poe gestures grandly about the empty bar, “Wednesday night trivia, and too-salty peanuts, and drunken proposals from napkin guy—“

Jess snorts loudly, slapping Poe’s thigh. “Oh my god, napkin guy! Fuck!”

Poe smiles (and it’s a real one. It’s honest.) “I don’t know what he’ll be more devastated by: the fact that you’re moving across the country, or that he’s only going to have me around to pass inappropriate napkin notes to.” 

“The whole I-like-girls thing really never phased him,” Jess says with a playful shake of her head. 

“It really didn’t,” Poe agrees, and he squeezes Jess’s shoulders just a little more tightly. 

They sit like that for a while, staring out Starbird’s fogged-up windows. Yavin was a sleepy city. The traffic light just outside washes the bar’s interior with a bath of bright and steady green, though there’s no cars around for miles to drive through it. It sort of feels like he and Jess could be the only people left in the city, Poe thinks. Maybe in the whole world. 

“Poe,” Jess says, interrupting his reverie, and she takes his big hand in her small one. She doesn’t meet his eyes. “You can always call me. About anything, anytime.”

Poe swallows hard. He speaks up, the tightness in his throat betraying him. “I know that.” 

“No, I mean,” Jess pulls his hand to her heart, still looking off somewhere that isn’t quite his eyeline, “if you’re... if you ever...” She visibly struggles to find the words, and Poe’s heart sinks at that. Jess meets his eyes. “I’m still here. Even if I’m gone, Poe. I’m not leaving you. You know that, right? I don’t want you to feel alone, because you’re not alone.” 

Poe doesn’t really know what to say to that. He concentrates on how warm Jess’s hands are over his to keep himself from bursting. 

“I told you, you can’t run from me,” Jess says, her mouth drawn into a hard red line. “Don’t try it.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, buddy,” Poe replies quietly, voice cracking. 

Her steely eyes scan him up and down, like she doesn’t trust him. And she shouldn’t, Poe thinks. _I wouldn’t._ “Alright,_ pal,”_ Jess says. “I’ll hold you to that.” She brightens, letting go of Poe’s hand—though he almost thinks to hold onto her’s a bit longer. “You ready for Friday?” 

“The party?” _Hell no_. “Yeah.” 

“Remember what you’re bringing?”

_Alcohol?_ “...Alcohol?” 

“Annnnnd?” Jess leans into Poe’s shoulder. 

_Shit_. Poe bites his lip. A gift? A going-away gift? Is that a thing, bringing gifts for a _your-best-friend-is-going-away-forever-party?_ “And a gift,” Poe tries, but Jess smacks him on the shoulder. 

“No, dummy. No gifts. You said you’d bring me a few copies of Spark so I can brag about you to my new coworkers in Coruscant! Don’t forget, okay?” 

Poe nods—“Right right right,” and he manages a slight smile, “I won’t.” _Note to self: buy alcohol for the party, bring your damn book to the party, avoid Snap at the party, and don’t cry at the party—the goodbye party. _

_Shit_, this is going to be the end of him. Poe instinctively paws for a cigarette from his shirt’s breast pocket, but he’d left his pack at home. 

Jess slides her bum off the bartop, her black Doc Martens loudly THUMPING back onto the bar’s tile floor, and Poe’s heart does a flip—he’s desperate to stretch the night on forever, and the night after that. Keep the impending doom of Jess’s goodbye party at arm’s length for as long as he can. He blurts: “There was a guy today.” 

Jess whips back around to face Poe, her ponytail swinging in a long black arc. “You WERE looking for someone! God _dammit_ Poe Dameron,” and she gives Poe a shove that nearly sends him flying over the counter. “Spill it, dummy! Who is he! Where’d you meet him!” 

Poe laughs heartily, gripping the bartop’s edge to steady himself again. “I didn’t meet him, I just—“ He sighs and hops off the countertop, combing his hair back a little bashfully. “He was just some cute guy, sitting at that cafe over there.”

“What? Did you say hi?” Jess cries, eyeing Maz’s Place across the street. “Is he new? Ohhh, someone NEW! In YAVIN! That’s exciting!” 

Poe chews on his lip. “It’s a little exciting. No, I didn’t say hi.” _Rather, I turned around and ran home and nearly had an episode after seeing him_, Poe thinks, but he’s pretty sure Jess can sense that.

“Say hi next time you see him. Text me all about it. I’ll tell you what though, if you get a boyfriend right when I leave, I’ll be pissed.” Jess grabs her backpack and bike helmet from behind the bar counter; the backpack jingles with the sound of house keys when she slings it over her shoulders. Her expression turns impish. “You know what? It’s the universe, I think.”

Poe blinks. “What is.” He grabs his jacket from the coat rack at Starbird’s entrance, and watches as Jess crosses the room to him—the way she’s crossed it a thousand times, with her backpack all buckled tightly about her, raising her red bike helmet to her head. She puts it on and looks to him with the helmet’s straps dangling about her chin, and now this is the closest Poe’s been to crying all night. 

“It’s bringing balance. I’m leaving Yavin, so the universe is replacing me, with a gift.” She waggles her dark brows. “A cute gift.” 

Poe snorts, and then softens, shaking his head. _Two things I know,_ he thinks, _maybe the only two things, _

_are that you can’t run from Jess Pava_—

Poe buckles Jess’s chin strap, and gives it a good, snug tug. 

—_and you could _never_ replace her. _

“Right. Bike safe, buddy,” he says, with a little grin. “See you on Friday.”

Jess’s eyes search his a bit, but after a quiet moment she reaches up and ruffles Poe’s curls. “Later Poe.”

They exit the bar; it’s freezing out, and Poe immediately wishes he’d grabbed a warmer jacket. The walk home’s gonna blow—Poe really needs to get his car fixed up, ASAP. (_Tomorrow, for sure._) 

Jess loops a leg over her bike and looks to Starbird’s old brick facade. She smiles, showing all her teeth (she’d told Poe a long time ago that she was self conscious about her smile. He never pressed her on it, but he loved it when she smiled like that, big and bold and cheeky, like a star), and gives the bar a reverential salute. “Godspeed, Starbird. I’m outta here.”

She winks at Poe, gives a push at her bike’s pedals, and rides into the night.

Poe sniffs. “Bye Jess,” he whispers. It’s cold enough to see his breath puff out into the night, like cigarette smoke, until it fades into nothing. 

Without Jess Pava, Yavin might as well be empty.

Just like Poe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's missed something, because cute guy is holding his hand out in the air and looks like he's suppressing a big laugh, like his face is a balloon about to pop into a smile. "I said, I'm Finn." 
> 
> Poe's mouth hangs wide open, and then he clamps it up so tightly that his teeth hurt. "Poe," he squeaks. He takes Finn's hand; it's very warm. And (oh, Jess would laugh) after a beat, he shakes it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to catch up on this guy again! I'd love to be able to finish it, but sometimes I'm like Poe and need a little more pushing. hope you guys enjoy. <3

When Poe’s head hits the pillow that night, he mentally scrubs through the list of things he needs to accomplish before Jess’s party:

  1. Alcohol. Jess needed drinks. The party was on Friday, but Jess’s flight to Coruscant was Saturday morning, and she’d already gotten rid of most of the food and liquor at her place. But more importantly, Jess always likes helping Poe feel useful. (She’d always give him “missions”; bring the drinks, pick the movie, come over and help me reach something from a high shelf even though you’re hardly taller than I am, etc.) (So, Poe was in charge of the drinks.) 
  2. Bring Spark—

Poe huffs loudly against his pillowcase. _Christ_. He squeezes the bridge of his nose with his fingers, eyes shut; when they open again, he can just make out the cardboard box peeking out from his closet, the one filled with about 40 or 50 copies of the same damn book. His book. The titles embedded in the their spines glint dully through the dark. Spark - _Book One_. The box wedged beside that one, taped shut with a wasteful amount of duct tape, is labeled with Poe’s messy handwriting in sharpie: _Book Two_. (There isn't a box in the closet for _Book Three;_ _Book Three’s_ home was on Poe’s shitty laptop gathering dust on his writing desk by the head of his bed.)

(It was _Book Three’s_ home _for now_, he reminds himself. He’d be finished soon.)

Poe sighed. Let’s try this again.

  1. Drinks. 
  2. Spark. 
  3. Car. Jess lived..._lives_ across town from Poe, which doesn’t mean much in Yavin; with a car you’re probably 15 minutes away from anything you’d wanna do here, whether it’s eat or hang or work. Poe needed to get gas, but he also needed to put some air in the tires, and get the oil changed, and the “check engine” light needed to be, er, checked—

Poe’s brow furrows; he’d start with getting gas. That’d be more than fine for tomorrow.

He blinks a couple times. That was plenty _to-do_ for a Thursday. Nothing too crazy or stressful, all perfectly manageable. (Poe feels a nagging sense that he is certainly, definitely forgetting something, as he often does, but after another quick think, he brushes the feeling away.)

It’ll be okay, Poe assures himself. 3 things. 3 easy things, and a whole day to do them. (One of them was just pulling a book from a box, for god’s sake.)

(Would it be okay, though? The truth, really, was that Poe still didn't have a strategy when it came to his anxieties over getting shit done. He just _didn’t_. He just had Jess,

and by Saturday evening, she’d be gone.)

Poe pulls his blankets a bit tighter about his chin. He feels himself drifting—not to sleep, but to that empty place he had a habit of drifting to.

_Poe. Are you with me?_, Jess would often ask him.

_I’m with you_, he’d answer._ I’m with you._

He eventually falls asleep, but not for all that long. 

* * *

It's Thursday evening now, and Poe still hasn't left the apartment. 

He's definitely thought of leaving. He just. Hasn't left. 

He's smoked through a few cigarettes. _(Quitting, tomorrow.) _

_(It's like a tunnel. And no matter which way you look, whether it's back over your shoulder, or far ahead, there's just no end, there's no<strike>\--</strike>_

_No. There's tomorrow. Tomorrow, you quit, just in time for Jess's party.) _

Eventually he gets out of bed and slides on some jeans and a fresh-ish sweater from a not-so-fresh pile of clothes. 

_(So much to do, you're so behind, you'll never finish writing it, you'll never finish anything, you'll never<strike>\--</strike>_)

Poe rubs his face and eyes, pushing so hard it sort of hurts. He's supposed to call her when he's twisting things, twisting _thoughts_. 

_Poe. Are you with me?_

She's probably busy with the party, texting other friends. And he's overthinking things; there's still time in the day. He can at least check one thing off of his to-do list. 

He eyes the box full of _Book Ones. _Bites his lip.

_Are you with me? _

* * *

Poe's walking, not driving, to the local library, a slew of books of all different thicknesses and sizes stuffed under his arm, all heinously overdue. This was... _definitely_ not on the to-do list, but it's something, right? It's getting him out of the apartment. Out of the tunnel. At least for now. 

Why does it feel like she's already left?   
  
Poe squashes that thought needling into his skin and presses on. 

He passes by all the faces he expects to pass by on a Thursday at 6<strike>\--</strike>Rose Tico, geared up with various smart watches and step-counters, walking her dogs around 4th and Temple Avenue (her phone is pressed between her cheek and her shoulder, and she's laughing loudly through a story she's relaying, but she still lifts a hand to give Poe a bubbly wave); Kaydel Connix, sporting a green apron and a braided crown, closing up Yavin Florist ("Hey Poe," she calls out; "Kaydel," Poe replies, giving a short nod). Yavin is alive, in its own gentle way. Poe sighs, relieving a sort of pressure he didn't quite know was building in his chest. 

It's a little late now, the cool evening air nipping at the skin above Poe's jacket collar, but Han usually takes his time with closing the library. "Things run on _Han Time_ here, kid," he'd always say, "and _Han Time_ is _on time_."

Han Solo and and Leia Organa were family friends, the kind who you forget aren't _actually_ family. They were the whole reason Poe's parents moved to Yavin, long before Poe was ever an idea. And although Poe had loved running around, getting dirty, and causing trouble as much as the other kids his age, his true sanctuary was Yavin Library, where Han worked. Stories were everything to Poe; he _hungered_ for adventure, for a life bigger than Yavin, and devoured every book Han offered him. It was even better when Han read them aloud, turned the stories _alive, _turned Poe _alive,_ making fantastic sound effects, doing voices<strike>\--</strike>and Poe's mouth curls into a grin at the echoes of the voices Han would put on for princesses, all high-pitched and haughty (while the heroes just sounded... well, like Han).

There was a day in the springtime during one of the bad years, when his mom was too weak to get up from her bed, too weak to sing to him, too weak to dance, where he burst through the library's entrance and zig-zagged through all the aisles, all the way to Han, thrusting a book report right into his eyes (or more likely, his waist; Poe had always been pretty small, while Han Solo was not very small at all.) 

Han looked down his long nose and through wiry glasses to evaluate Poe's report. "_A minus_. Not bad, kid!"

"No, no," Poe pressed an impatient finger to the title of his report. "Who did I write it about." 

Han pulled a face, ducking down to read Poe's report more carefully. "Johann David Wyss. Ah. _Swiss Family Robinson._ Your favorite." 

"Yeah, and it's here, in your library," Poe said, gesturing boldly to the many aisles of books beside them. He was trying to land a point that felt very obvious to _him_, but clearly not to Han.

"Well, of course it's here, you've checked it out a hundred times," Han laughed.   
  
"I'm going to write books, like Johann David Wyss," Poe explained, presenting the report again. 

Han cocked an eyebrow, taking a beat. "You are?" 

"Yes. And when I do," and Poe remembers even now how he didn't quite look Han in the eye for this, and had opted to focus on a few multi-colored specks in the linoleum floor instead; "..._if_ I do, can you please put it here? In your library, I mean. Please." And Poe remembers how hot his cheeks had burned, waiting for Han's answer. 

Han Solo then got down on one knee (and that's something else about Han that Poe loved; Han had always taken extra care to make Poe feel _big _then, not _small)._ He smiled crookedly. "Sure thing, Poe." 

And Poe remembers how his face hurt from smiling so damn big, because Han had agreed just like that, like it was _easy_. 

Poe arrives at the library. 

It's closed. 

"Damn," he huffs, pouting a bit. He tosses a look over his shoulder to the adjacent parking lot. No sign of Han's truck, though there is one other car left in the lot, one Poe's never seen before. It looks new. 

There's a light on somewhere in the back of the building, too, so Poe presses down experimentally on the entrance's silver lever handles.

Locked. 

Poe gives the books stuffed in the crook of his arm a glance, then peers back in through the tall foyer windows. He raps his fist a few times against the door. "Hello?" 

No answer. 

He lingers, knuckles still lightly pressed to the door, unreasonably hopeful for someone to appear in the aisles and let him turn in these books. 

After too long of a wait, he gives one last, firm knock. "Hello." 

No answer. 

But another light flickers on, in the way, way back, and a head (definitely _not_ a Han head) peeks over a far off shelf. 

"Who the hell..." Poe mumbles, and he leans into the window, squinting hard at the figure peeking back at him. Their head disappears below the shelves again and is out of sight for a few seconds, reappearing much, much closer in the library's main walkway. The skylights in the ceiling cast pale light onto the figure, and<strike>\--</strike>

Poe's eyes nearly pop out from his skull. "Holy _shit." _

Jess Pava would've surely paid good money to see his face right now, because Maz's Place guy, cute guy, _new-in-Yavin-guy_ was the one making his way across the library, looking just about as confused as Poe feels. 

He faces Poe through the foyer window, brow furrowed. "Library's closed," cute guy says frankly, voice muffled through the glass. 

It might as well have been gibberish; Poe looks past the young man's shoulders, to the lights in the back of the library, and then meets his eyes again. "Where's Han?" 

Cute guy blinks a few times behind his square glasses. "Out sick," he calls back. 

Poe shakes his head. "Out...? I'm sorry, who are you? I have to turn in these books," Poe explains loudly, gesturing with his unruly stack. 

Cute guy laughs now, incredulous. "I told you, we're<strike>\--</strike>" and he stops himself with a short, loud sigh. He crosses over to the entryway, and Poe watches as the library doors' lever handles twist up and down with a loud _click_. They swing open wide, and cute guy pockets the ring of keys that Poe has seen Han Solo carry for over thirty years. "Sorry. We're closed." 

Poe slowly looks the young man up and down now, and as it turns out, he's much, _much_ cuter up close. Dressed in another patterned sweater (woven autumn leaves dot the young man's chest and arms), he was solid, square, and just a little bit soft about the edges, especially in his face. He's given Poe an appraisal as well, and Poe nearly chokes; does he remember him from the other day? Was Poe now the creepy staring guy trying to break into Yavin Library on this kid's watch? (Jess Pava would laugh and laugh and laugh at all of this, she'd never let him hear the end of it.)   
  
Poe finally remembers that words are a thing and sputters, "What do you mean out sick?" 

The young man shifts his weight and slides his hands into his chino pockets. "It's nothing serious. He called in an hour ago, said he'd be back bright and early tomorrow."

Poe bites his lip; if it wasn't serious, Han would be here. Leia must've made him stay behind<strike>\--</strike>

He's missed something, because cute guy is holding his hand out in the air and looks like he's suppressing a big laugh, like his face is a balloon about to pop into a smile. "I said, I'm Finn." 

Poe's mouth hangs wide open, and then he clamps it up so tightly that his teeth hurt. "Poe," he squeaks. He takes Finn's hand; it's very warm. And (oh, Jess would _laugh_) after a beat, he shakes it. 

Cute guy<strike>\--</strike>_Finn_<strike>\--</strike>grins, cheeks pushing up his glasses just a tad. "I'm new. Just got hired. Giving Han a hand. Not like he wants it." 

And Poe can't help but laugh at that, a short, breathy chuckle. "Yeah, yeah. That's Han Solo for ya." He glances to the books under his arm, though he immediately regrets it, because Finn<strike>\--</strike>_Finn_<strike>\--</strike>catches the look, too. "Ah," Poe starts taking a few steps backwards, getting a little bit colder with each step out into the wind, "Sorry. For keeping you. I'll, ah," and the word feels heavy on his tongue as he hefts his stack of books, "tomorrow." 

Finn's eyes dart to the parking lot, empty save for his?<strike>\--</strike>_Finn's_<strike>\--</strike>car. "Why not just use the drop box," he says. 

Poe blinks. "Ah. Well. These are just. They're really late, is all. And I. Wanted to pay the," he can't tell it's the cold or his nerves making it so damn hard to just talk, "the fee." 

Finn looks back to Poe, lips pressed into a funny line, brows raised. He nods, and then says, "Alright, come on." 

He turns back into the library and holds the door open wide. A familiar anxiety twists a knot into Poe's stomach, the kind he gets when he's putting people out, and being a burden. "Youuuu don't have to<strike>\--</strike>" 

"Come on, come on," Finn says, waving impatiently. 

And the way he, _Finn_, says it, sort of untwists the knot.

"Thank you. Are you, uh, local?" Poe asks as they approach the library checkout counter.   
  
Finn rounds the counter and takes a seat to boot up a near-ancient computer. "Very recently, yeah. I used to live over in Hoth. Just transferred to Yavin U." 

Poe lets out a long whistle. "Damn. _Hoth_. The weather here's got nothing on you, huh." 

"It's perfect," Finn says, smiling a little. The computer screen comes alive with a little musical quarter-tone. He reaches out to Poe's book stack with a plastic scanner. "May I?" 

"Uh," Poe slides the books across the counter. "You may." And Finn scans them, one by one.

His face makes that expression again, the one that looks like a balloon that's about to pop, at whatever pops up onto the computer screen. "...Poe Dameron?" he asks, voice high. 

"Yes?" Poe says, but his face blanches in horror, only just realizing what Finn might be seeing. "Um, I can explain<strike>\--</strike>"

"This is seriously impressive," Finn says, lifting a hand to his lips as he scrolls through a list of overdue books under Poe's account. "I'm surprised there's any books left on the shelves, you've got the whole library back at home." 

"Han and I, he's, I'm sort of like," Poe's cheeks burn like he's a comet blazing through the atmosphere, "we kind of have a deal, he and I. He just<strike>\--</strike>"

Finn raises an eyebrow at him, still secretly smiling through the fingers pressed against his lips. 

Poe heaves a sigh, his shoulders dropping low. "He knows." 

Finn's eyes crinkle with a smile. "Well, that's obvious. You're kind of hoarding half the library." 

Poe wonders if a person's whole body can blush. 

"Here," Finn mercifully says, pulling Poe's overdue books aside and placing them on a rolling cart. Poe pulls out his wallet hastily, but Finn raises a hand. "Tomorrow. You work out your Han deal _with_ Han. How's that sound." 

"Uh. Yeah. Thanks," Poe pockets his wallet slowly, "Finn." 

"No problem, Poe. Now, how about we<strike>\--</strike>" 

"Can I just?" Poe points over to the _New Releases _shelf near the entryway. "Since we're...?" 

Finn gives Poe a look over his glasses. 

"Library's closed," Poe says with a wag of his finger, "got it." 

And Finn laughs, and Poe almost has to look away, because his laugh only makes him cuter. 

Finn gets up to flip the lights off in the back of the library, and they make their way back to the front foyer. "What do you do, then," Finn asks, locking up the library with Han's ring of keys, "aside from the whole stockpiling books for the apocalypse thing." 

"Ha," Poe laughs, flipping the collar of his jacket up a little higher against the crisp autumn air. "I, ah." He lets his thoughts wrestle and roll about his head, eyes dropping to the gravel trapped beneath his worn sneakers. "I'm a bartender," he decides. "At the Starbird, have you stopped by there yet?" 

"No, not a big drinker," Finn says, "though... I feel like my roommate's friends with someone who works there, too. Across the street from Maz's Place, yeah? Old brick building?" And Finn's smiling sort of knowingly at him, and warmly. 

Poe gives a nod, a little dazed. "That's the one." 

"Very cool," Finn says. "Well. It was nice to meet you, book thief. I gotta run. Stay warm." 

Poe smiles big, bigger than he really means to, and stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. "Thanks. Thank you, Finn. You too. Uh." He thought there'd be more words, because he always has words; but he just shakes his head and gives a little salute with his jacket pocket, adding, "Thanks." 

Finn gives him one last grin, all cheeky, and jogs off to his car. 

Poe luckily catches himself before he starts ogling again, and embarks on the trek back to the apartment. 

His face feels a little bit _weird_ by the time he gets back; he blames the cold, at first, on the stiffness in his cheeks and chin, but when he passes by the bathroom mirror, he sees the stupid smile plastered on his face.

That... all of that was _definitely_ not on his to-do list. 

But...

_Finn_. His name's _Finn_. 

And Poe's still smiling, if only for now, 

because Jess Pava's party is tomorrow night. 

_(And he's back now, in the tunnel.)_

_Poe? Are you with me?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks at Jess standing a whole head below him, looks at how here she is; at how strong she looks, even in a dumb children’s costume; at how much she wants him to be happy, at a party all meant for her. 
> 
> And it kills him.
> 
> “Hey,” she says softly. “Are you with me?” 
> 
> Please don’t go, Poe thinks. But he nods. “Yeah. I’m with you.”
> 
> (Jess's party, part 1.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a lot of fun with this chapter, and working fiendishly on the next! Lemme know what you think. Thanks for reading. <3

Poe hates it when he dreams, because they’re usually too vivid, and never fun. He longs for throwaway dreams, the ones you forget upon your first glance at the ceiling in the morning.

He dreams, _vividly_, the night before Jess’s party, of Snap and Karé’s wedding.

It’s all seamless, memories blending in and out from one another, a strange Picasso patchwork of that night four years ago.

“You look beautiful,” and he’s hugging Karé, and the wedding party lights their sparklers, they wave them in the night, Jess is his dance partner, he twirls her, she’s so _tiny_, and Snap’s nervous, “You’re gonna do great, buddy,” the sparklers are gold, the moon is silver, the sand is silver, too, Poe pricks his finger on Snap’s corsage, drawing a tiny bud of blood, Jess is _tiny_ but she’s _strong_, she dips Poe back, Poe laughs, he will remember tonight forever, Snap folds Poe into a warm embrace, he will remember tonight forever, he’ll finish his book, “You’re looking better, Poe,” he’s _feeling_ better, he lights a cigarette, he lights his sparkler, Karé walks down the aisle, Snap loves her, “I do,” Poe will remember tonight forever, he sucks the blood from his finger, they all jump in the water, he jumps in the water, he _jumps_—

And Poe wakes up with a sharp inhale, gripping tightly at his sheets. After several minutes, his grip finally slacks; he wipes a light sheen of sweat from his forehead with the crook of his arm.

Tonight is Jess’s party.   
  
Tomorrow she’ll be gone.

Remember:

  1. Drinks 
  2. Spark
  3. —

Poe climbs into his car in the late afternoon, dressed in yesterday’s clothes (a green flannel and leather jacket, ratty jeans, worn shoes), hair a dark mess, and he twists the key into ignition—

The engine sputters, halts. Poe waits, expectant.

He twists the keys again. Sputter, sputter—

“Fuck,” he whispers. He leans back into his seat. _“Fuck.”_

It’s a long fucking walk to Pava’s. Poe eyes his phone for the time; _4:12._

Better start walking.

* * *

Fall in Yavin is probably the best out there. It’s _wondrous_. The trees couldn’t be any brighter, ribboning the city and Yavin river in a vibrant orange glow. Every storefront boasts their pumpkins and scarecrows proudly, every person smiles a little wider after a sip of their lattes.

Poe spends most of fall just waiting for it to end.

He can see the appeal, though. It’s certainly pretty. But he doesn’t look up to the trees while he walks across town, doesn’t look down to the wide river below as he spans the old suspension bridge that feeds directly into downtown Yavin. He just studies his own shoes as they crunch along the wet sidewalks coated in fallen orange leaves, fixed by the rhythm of the sound of his stepping and each shallow breath he takes.

Summer was his favorite season; Jess’s too. They’d drive down to the beaches every year.

But Shara,

Shara _loved_ fall.

They once found a leaf that was the size of her whole head, and—

Poe bitterly spits onto the pavement, picks up his pace. He arrives at Galaxy Grocer’s, feeling more than a little winded from the hike already.

He fills two plastic baskets with drinks, vodka and tequila and some beers and the like, and piles them hastily onto the check-out conveyor belt. The clerk squints at him carefully.

“Dameron,” the clerk says, taking a bottle in hand from the belt. “ID.”

Poe huffs loudly. “Really, Hux.”

“Yes, really,” Armitage Hux replies, methodically scanning bottles with a long, crooked sneer. They’d grown up together practically, with Hux trailing behind Poe by a few grades at school; he was just as pale then as he was now, though his hair seemed to only be getting redder, like the trees dotting Yavin in the fall.

Poe thumbs through his wallet for his driver’s license and flips it to Hux. “You stoppin’ by Jess’s tonight?” he asks as Hux earnestly assesses Poe’s date-of-birth.

“Not sure,” Hux murmurs, eyes flitting back and forth from Poe’s license to Poe. “I’m not one for parties.”

“No kidding.” Poe’s eyes drift to the cabinet just past Hux’s shoulders filled with cigarettes.

“That’ll be 59.30,” Hux says dryly.

“Ah, cool,” Poe mutters, thumbing for his credit card. He points to the cabinet. “Can I actually grab a pack of Bespins.”

Hux blinks slowly. “Sure. ID please.”

Poe rolls his eyes, and when Hux shows no sign of letting up, presents the license again. Hux judges it keenly, and then, after an annoyingly significant pause, unlocks the cabinet to grab the pack. “65.40.”

Poe inserts his credit card into the chip reader at the counter.

The word _DECLINED_ flashes brightly on its screen.

“Try again,” Hux mumbles, one brow cautiously raised.

Poe purses his lips, inserts the chip again—

_DECLINED_.

_“Fuck,”_ Poe breathes, and he flinches, suddenly aware of the children shopping with their parents nearby. “Ah. Here.” Poe fumbles through old frozen yogurt punch cards and crumpled receipts in his wallet; a single penny hides in one of the interior pockets. Hux waits, looking up and away from the scene—probably out of embarrassment, Poe thinks, because that’s _exactly_ what this is—

“I got it.”

An arm sporting a patterned sweater (jack-o’-lanterns carved with a variety of scowls and smirks) reaches over and inserts a card into the reader, and Poe damn near squeaks in surprise. “Finn?”

“So you’re a moonshiner too?” Finn says, mouth curled slyly. “Why am I not surprised?”

“No no no _no_,” Poe shakes his head, reaching for Finn’s card, “absolutely not, I can’t let you—“

“I’ll put it on your tab.” Finn winks, and Poe’s so dumbstruck he nearly _laughs_—

But he doesn’t have too, because Hux laughs for him.   
  
It’s loud and awkward, and his pale fingers fly to his mouth to stifle it (and Poe is struck for a moment by how strange it is to see Hux’s face contort into anything other than a grimace). He clears his throat. “Sorry. It’s just. _Ahem_. Sorry. Would you like your receipt?”

Finn gives a nod. Poe grabs his bagged-up liquor, still partly dazed. “Thank you,” he says, “Finn. Really. I’ll pay you back as soon as I—“

“Don’t mention it,” Finn says, all cheeky. He starts lining the conveyor belt with a few groceries, some snacks and soda, mostly. “You know where to find me.”

Poe’s only just aware of how his mouth’s been dopily hanging open (and he swears Hux lets out a wheezy laugh again, but when Poe turns to catch him, he’s innocently scanning groceries with that trademarked Armitage sneer). “Right,” he says, and he makes to leave with his bags of booze, but Finn’s voice interrupts him once more.   
  
“Poe,” he says, not so smiley this time; his index finger taps the pack of Bespins sitting on the counter.

Poe doubles back for the cigarettes, avoiding Finn’s gaze as he slips the pack into his jacket’s left breast pocket. “Right. Okay. Bye.” Eyes to the floor, he swiftly exits Galaxy Grocer’s, where he’s promptly greeted by a steady sprinkle of rain.

Poe looks to the sky, and to the time on his phone (and the raindrops feel cool as they lightly prickle the blush in Poe’s cheeks). _5:05_. “Fuck,” he whispers.

He could call Jess, maybe grab a ride.

His eyes land guiltily to the bags of booze in his hands, the pack of Bespins protruding from his jacket, all generously, _pitifully_ covered by a complete and total stranger. (A… mostly complete, mostly total, _pumpkin-pattern-parading_ stranger.)  
  
(Poe’s cheeks still burn.)

And the rain’s only getting heavier, so,

Poe starts walking.

* * *

He really should’ve called.

Rain slips uncomfortably down the back of his neck and shoulder blades, all cold and sharp; it drips steadily from the black tendrils messily plastered against his forehead and temples, and his socks start to squish a bit with every step that hits the sidewalk. A shiver racks down his spine that nearly makes him drop his liquor, and god, why won’t fall end.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he whispers, the word of the day. What a fine purveyor of _language_ was he, a true master of his craft! Poe Dameron, POET LAUREATE, _fuck it, fucking, FUCK—_

A horn blares from behind him, and Poe jumps, nearly dropping his bags again. He squints through the rainfall, water pooling in his eyelashes. Pulling up to the curb beside him is a grayish, beat-up minivan, covered bumper-to-bumper in stickers with sayings _(I DON’T DO MORNINGS, I’M SO GAY I CAN’T EVEN DRIVE STRAIGHT,_ etc., etc.), and though the van is a piece of junk and clearly seen its fair share of scrapes, Poe marvels, because it’s _new_.

Another new _something_ in old _Yavin_; would wonders _never fucking cease?_  
  
The passenger window rolls down, revealing a young woman wearing a headband with cat ears at the wheel. She leans hard against her seatbelt and her voice, distinctly accented, shouts through the din of the rain: “Are you the damsel in distress I’m supposed to be saving?”

Poe makes a face; he combs his hair behind his ears, dubious. “Uh… I don’t think so, no.”

“You definitely match the description!” the woman calls. “Black hair, needs to shave, resting bitch face!” She stretches over to the passenger door and, after a bit of an audible struggle, pushes it open. Her hand slaps the minivan’s passenger seat. “C’mon, Jess sent me!”

Poe just stands and stares for a second, stupefied, rain dripping profusely from every angle and edge of his body and clothes. His voice croaks: “Jess Pava?”

“The one and only!” the woman chirps triumphantly. “Hurry up, the party’s waiting!”

So Poe climbs into the minivan, and it lurches a bit under his weight with a low, metallic groan.

The woman signals to pull out into the road even though there’s no cars in sight ahead or behind them. They roll forward through the rain, the minivan’s windshield wipers dancing wildly. “The name’s Rey,” the woman then announces, and she reaches blindly behind her seat; her hand pops up again with a bright yellow towel, and she tosses it into Poe’s lap.

He takes it gingerly, replying, “I’m Poe,” and presses his face into the towel’s soft cotton.

“I know,” Rey says, her freckly face impish (and Poe just notices the whiskers scrawled on her cheeks in black paint). “Jess n’ I are climbing buddies. She told me about you.”

Poe’s stomach sort of flips at the thought of whatever Jess could’ve possibly told her about. “Good things, I hope,” he lamely offers, though no good things immediately come to his mind.

_“Wellllll,”_ Rey says, pulling a face as if to suggest otherwise, and then, with her nose scrunched, “I’m kidding. _Great_ things.”

And Poe finally cracks a dimply grin, because he can already see exactly why Jess would like Rey.

* * *

The drive to Jess’s takes all but six or seven minutes, filled with a (mostly) comfortable silence. Poe usually can't help but fill lulls in conversation with idle chit-chat, but the soaking-wet walk had really done a number on him; his heart rate finally settles by the time they park on Jess’s street, packed to the brim with cars.

Poe scans quickly for Snap’s ride, a sturdy, red sedan (christened “Old Faithful” at Yavin U), but it’s not parked anywhere near Jess’s as far as Poe can tell, and his shoulders relax oh-so-slightly.

“Lemme help ya with those,” Rey says, grabbing a bag of booze, and they bound out of the minivan and up the rainy driveway to Jess’s apartment’s front door; it’s criss-crossed with fake webbing, and spiders, and skulls, and cut-out paper bats, and—

“Oh,” Poe whispers, _“fuck.”_

Jess Pava swings the door wide open, dressed in a green flight suit and aviators. “Poe! Rey! You’re here!” she squeals, pulling them both down into her orbit for a hug. “Oh my god, Poe, you’re soaked!”

“I saved him,” Rey says smugly.

“That she did,” Poe returns, and he gives her a grateful (albeit, tired) smile. He raises a grocery bag. “Got the drinks.”

“Hell. Yes. Give me those,” Jess says, smacking a kiss on Poe’s cheek. “Thank you, Poe.”

And Poe’s voice is really quiet when he replies, “You’re welcome, Jess.”

She takes their bags and scuttles away, “C’mon, kitchen kitchen kitchen,” and they follow Jess into the churning sea that is her (_very_ much Halloween-themed) goodbye party.   
  
Poe frowns deeply at all of the colorful costumes; skeletons mingled with scarecrows, who danced with pirates, who gossiped with witches, all made up to perfection, all outshining Poe. His clothes were still damp from his walk in the rain, slightly sticking to his skin. _I’m a walking disaster,_ he thinks, _that’s my costume for this year. Do you like it? Yeah, it’s store-bought._

Jess and Poe and Rey start standing bottles up along her kitchen island, earning appreciative hoots and hollers from the party all around them. “You survived your first ride in the Falcon, how was that!” Jess says, elbowing Poe in his side.

He grabs a stack of plastic red cups from the pantry and displays them on the island. “The _Falcon?”_

“My van,” Rey answers, popping open a beer bottle and taking a swig. “I made sure not to scare him, Jess. Drove the speed-limit and everything.”

Jess smiles with her whole face at Rey and Poe, eyes sparkling through her aviators. “Thanks, friend. I appreciate that.”

“My pleasure!” And Rey tosses her head back for another drink, already halfway through her bottle. “WOO-HOO!” she shouts, pumping a fist in the air, and several party goers throughout the apartment echo back with joyful woo-hoo’s of their own. Rey disappears into the fray, Poe’s eyes lingering at her back.   
  
“Should I be concerned…?” Poe asks, and Jess giggles, shaking her head.

“She’s fine. Rey’s got a designated driver tonight,” Jess says, circling a finger in the air, “her roomie’s around here somewhere.”

“Got it.” Poe uncorks some rum and pours it; “She seems sweet.”

“She is,” Jess says warmly, eyes fixed on Poe’s. “You forgot, huh.”

And Poe sighs heavily, pinching his dark brow. “I’m sorry, Jess, I don’t know why I blanked on the whole Halloween thing, I should've—“

“Not that,” Jess’s smile falters a bit, and Poe’s gut twists up; “Spark.”

He clasps a cold hand to his lips, eyes wide. “Fuck. _Jess.”_

“It’s okay!” She tosses her hands up high in surrender, “It’s really okay, Poe—“

“No, it’s not, it’s really, really not,” Poe leans his head back onto the fridge behind him, eyes squeezed shut, “you gave me one job, and I fucked it up—“

“Poe. Hey. Hey. Listen.” Jess flips her aviators up and takes his hand; she smiles, cheeks faintly dimply, and it’s like a punch to Poe’s jaw, she’s so full of _grace_ for him and all his stupid mistakes. “You did not fuck it up, you got that? Tonight’s supposed to be fun. No self-loathing allowed.”

“I can go grab it now, I don’t mind,” he says, feeling decidedly self-loathing, rules be damned.

“Absolutely not, dumbass. I want you here way more than I want your book here,” and she shrugs, squeezing his hand, “just… mail me a signed one when I’m all settled, okay?”

He looks at Jess standing a whole head below him, looks at how _here_ she is; at how _strong_ she looks, even in a dumb children’s costume; at how much she wants _him_ to be happy, at a party all meant for _her_.

And it kills him.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Are you with me?”

_Please don’t go_, Poe thinks. But he nods. “Yeah. I’m with you.”

Jess’s phone buzzes loudly on the kitchen island; she gives Poe’s hand one last squeeze before looking to see who’s calling. The expression on her face all but skywrites it, so Poe takes his rum and makes to leave. 

“I’ll be on the balcony,” he mutters. 

“What if you just,” Jess struggles for words, “say hi, or _something_, he’s not gonna—“

But Poe’s already halfway up the stairs, fumbling for the cigarettes in his breast pocket.

He weaves through a tangle of a few party stragglers upstairs (one sexy mummy wrapped in too-little toilet paper, another black cat that isn’t Rey, a bedsheet ghost), making a beeline for Jess’s balcony,

_(He’s on the edge of something,_

_and it’s bad, he decides. It’s really bad),_

but when he pulls its glass slider open and promptly shuts it behind him with a _whoosh_, he finds he’s actually not at all alone up here;

or rather,

he _is_ alone,

with Finn.

“Oh,” is all Poe can say, and he’s staring again, bewitched. An unlit cigarette dangles from his lips.

Finn looks surprised, and it’s only exaggerated by the new makeup painted on his skin; swaths of black and white form a skeleton’s face over Finn’s. His full lips, marked with fine white and black dashes, suppress what must be an enormous laugh. “Nice costume,” he says. “Let me guess…”

And Poe laughs, gesturing up and down his figure. “Local hoarder.”

Finn’s eyes shine. _“That’s_ the one.”

_(Or maybe it’s the edge of something good, _Poe thinks.

_May wonders never fucking cease.)_


End file.
